


We Breathe in Tragedy

by I_Got_Lost



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Cant prove its not cannon, Complete, Gen, Helen of troy deserved better, Not A Fix-It, One Shot, POV Second Person, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Got_Lost/pseuds/I_Got_Lost
Summary: "The biggest tragedy, you think as you fold the weft through the warp, is that you were born a woman.Your cousins and brothers are praised as gods amongst men. The children of the gods, born of mortal women and made all the stronger because of adversity and strife. They are held to standards of excellence and you, you are not."Helen of Troy, (of Sparta), was spirited away from her home because of a deal made between a mortal man and a goddess. This is not the first tragedy she has faced and this will certainly not be the last. "We Breathe in Tragedy," is a 2nd person p.o.v. based on the idea that Helen was forced into a life that was too confining for a daughter of the gods.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	We Breathe in Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic bugged me for years and after having to study the Iliad for so many years, I finally decided to write this down and post it. There's a lot of time jumps but I hope that the story makes sense when you read it.  
> Anyway, as always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost  
> Ps. put a comment or a kudos if you like it!

The biggest tragedy, you think as you fold the weft through the warp, is that you were born a woman.

Your cousins and brothers are praised as gods amongst men. The children of the gods, born of mortal women and made all the stronger because of adversity and strife. They are held to standards of excellence and you, you are not.

The biggest tragedy is that you were born a woman.

The blood of kings flows through your veins. Your blood echoes the songs of the gods themselves and your spirit rages against the confines of mortal flesh. You look to the skies, to the rumbling blues and the stains of grey, and you think that the skies show all the anger you cannot. Your brothers were given swords, you were given shuttles and pins. Your brothers ran wild and argued philosophy, you studied beside your mother and kneaded bread in the kitchens. Your brothers learn to fight, to tussle. They learn to be loud, to be big, to be so much  _ more. _

Your brothers learn to fight.

You learn to breathe.

Your mother tucks and folds your hair into a woven crown and she teaches you how to smile and how to keep the anger tucked away behind cages of bone and boiling blood. Your mother, who watches your brothers, who sees their rages and their happiness. Who looks at your brothers and sees that they are so much  _ more.  _ Who sees that your brothers feel more, see more, fight more. Your mother, who sees the tragedy long before you do. Who knows that the same blood of kings flows through your veins. Who sees you scratch and itch at skin that seems too small and never enough. Your mother sees the tragedy of your birth, and she does the only thing she knows how.

She teaches you to breathe. To tuck away the pain and the anger. To smile even as the world crumbles around your feet into ash. She teaches you to count heartbeats and knots in a thread. She teaches you how to put poison in your words and barbs in your tongue. She cannot teach you to wield a sword or a knife, but she teaches you to look at a man and to decide if his honour is worth less than your virtue.

You might have the blood of kings in your veins, but your worth is in the number of sons you can bear. You are nothing until your first bleeding.

Helen of Sparta, your step-father names you. You are not his daughter, but he uses you all the same. You are a political tool and while you can wrap men about your fingers with nothing but a pretty little smile, you ache with the knowledge if you had been born a man, these skills would have never been necessary in the first place.

You are Helen of Sparta, and your step-father reminds you every time you breathe, that you are nothing without a man.

You sit with the other women and you keep your head down. You keep your chin tucked into your chest because if you don’t then you are liable to bite. Your brothers are arrogant and praised for it. You are sharp and worn down closer to a dull edge the longer the seasons march on. You come of age too soon in a kingdom you have no right to rule.

You suppose you should be happy you were given this long in your mother’s house.

You meet your husband on your wedding night. It is not a love match. The whole farce is political. Your mother smiles and hugs you and tells you to write. You do not cry as you are herded away. The maids rub you down with oils and shove you into a white shift. An older woman tells you that if you breathe and don’t panic, it won’t hurt as much.

The maids tell you that you should be happy, your husband is apparently quite talented if the rumours the whores allow to let slip are any truth. To be honest, you wouldn’t know. You are a woman, and as such, you are not allowed to be loose and free.

The blood of kings runs through your veins and you look up to the skies the next morning as your husband proudly displays a white sheet stained with your blood. Privately, you wonder if he would be so proud if you had given into the impulse and  _ bit out his throat. _

You faded into obscurity in your childhood home and it looks as if you face the same fate here. Your husband shows you off like a trophy and although you wear a crown and are called queen, you have never felt so sequestered in your life. The women here do not chatter while they work. They do not sing while they weave. There is no gossip, no stories, no philosophical debates.

There is nothing.

(You miss home.)

A year turns into two, then three. You bear two children. A boy and a girl. Your husband says he loves them both, but you look at the pale hair of your daughter and ache. There is a wariness in your bones and a pain in your heart. Your daughter is worth nothing to this kingdom until her first bleedings. (You look at your daughter and you see yourself.)

(You look at your daughter and you see a tragedy.)

For bearing a son, your husband gives you a dagger so smoothly polished, it reflects your face perfectly. In the corners of the room, while you nurse your children, you play with the dagger, twirling it around and around and around and…

The balance is off.

The blade is too thin.

You hold the too short hilt in your hand and think that if this dagger broke skin, it would break upon hitting the meat of muscle. (This is not a knife, you think as you place it down beside your loom, it is a looking glass given a shape in the form of a taunt.)

For your daughter, your husband gives you a frown, and mentions about having better luck next time. You almost stick the blade three inches into his throat for that remark.

Time marches on.

You host a wedding. Kings and queens, warriors abound, and allies of every region are invited. This will be the first time since you were married you will see your full family. Part of you wonders if your brothers missed you. Another part simply wants to grab hold of her mother's skirts and never let go. Still, there are guests of every walk of life. You spent half your time dodging questions and smiling a bland smile as your husband parades you about like a prize.

You are Helen of Sparta and you are nothing more than a pretty face.

It takes you almost absurdly long to realize that the figures the royals avoid are actually the gods. The gods. Here. In your home. (Your father? Here? Would he recognize you? Would he care? What of your own children? Would he see them, or only your son?)

Then, Discord rolls in the apple and the wedding dissolves into a brawl. Ultimately, the goddesses win. Your sister Athena, your father's wife, Hera, and your aunt, Aphrodite. They ask a mortal man (a mortal prince,) who is the most beautiful. The most deserving. They offer battle strategies and sound tactics. They offer long life and happy marriage.

They offer you.

The tragedy of this story is that you were born a woman.

(You have grown up with the legacy of being the most beautiful woman to walk the earth. As you stand there, waiting for judgement, you can see Aphrodite's cruel smirk and you wonder how much of this is simple revenge.)

(A goddess does not like to be beaten, after all.)

Your father does nothing to stop them.

You wonder what colour a Goddess would bleed if you stuck your looking glass dagger into their hearts and  _ twisted. _

The prince chooses you.

You do not know why you are surprised.

Before you lay down to sleep that night, you walk about the rooms of your children and you silently pick up scattered toys and clothing. It would do no good to weep. It would do no good to fight.

(Your mother tells you growing up that no man is worth your virtue. You wonder when that changed.)

You smooth back the hair of your eldest, and kiss the cheek of your youngest, and you wonder if leaving them behind is the kindest option. A goddess has given you away. If you leave your children, they remain in danger from the wife your husband will replace you with. Her heirs will force yours to choke on blood and death. If you take your children with you, the man who now holds your life has two more hostages to use against you.

You let them sleep.

Your husband, a naive and foolish man who thinks the gods actually  _ care,  _ sleeps peacefully in his chambers. He thinks the rules of xenia are enough to keep the mortal prince from acting against a king. You are not surprised when the prince walks into your bedchambers and guides you through the halls like a thief in the night.

You leave with nothing more than your useless dagger and your daughter’s doll. You had not realized you kept it as you walked away from your children for the last time and part of you is horrified that you might have reminded the prince you have children of your own. Thankfully, the prince does not seem to care.

You are smuggled onto a ship and you sit in a cabin and you think rather foolishly that this is not a love match either. You do not know why you wish to cry at the thought. You are Helen of Sparta (of Troy), women of your station do not have the luxury of love. In a fit of anger, as the seas throw wave after wave at the prow, you tell yourself that your husband will not care that you have been taken. You were nothing to him, hardly amounting to more than a pretty face because you could only bear  _ one  _ son.

(Later, you will stand on the stone wall of a city preparing for war, and you will wonder how you could ever think of your husband as anything less than an egotistical man. His prize has been stolen, and like a child with a broken toy, he has pitched a fit.)

Still, you arrive to see a gleaming city and horrified stares. Your beauty precedes you and you can see the people watching you with awe and terror.

You are the wife of a king and yet you stand in a city not your own, on the arm of their prince. In the crowd that watches the parade of royals journey to the citadel, your aunt stands and laughs. You do not react. You have always been able to see your father’s side of the family without difficulty and you know your aunt’s taunting laughter is meant for your ears only.

(You wonder what colour a goddess would bleed.)

King Priam takes one look at you and his face turns a pale ashy colour. You do not blame him. His eldest son, the honorable one of the two (although, maybe this assessment is not entirely fair, considering your circumstances), gives you a tight smile and welcomes you to the household. You do not ask when you can go back to your husband, back to your children. You were born to be a political bargaining chip, this has not changed even though you married.

You are shown to your rooms. You are given an assortment of maids. You have a household. (You do not want to like it here. You do not want to enjoy the so-called gift your aunt has pushed onto you without your consent.)

The first day of your new life, you nearly weep. The women file into your rooms and they giggle and gossip between each other with an ease you have not seen since your childhood. The sight is enough to steal your breath away and make the world tilt dangerously beneath your feet.

Hector’s wife, Andromache, includes you in her entourage without complaint. Her only comment is to note the foolishness of men, particularly young men facing a goddess. You do not say a word. She doesn’t seem to mind.

It is a kindness that the other women do not ask you of your homeland. They do not ask of the sights you have seen, or the people you have known, of the world you left behind. They do not ask you about your children. They are all women, after all, they all know what it means to be a battering piece and a spoil of war. It is a kindness to leave the past tucked away in boiling blood and a cage of bone.

Word comes of black sails and Achean men storming through the countryside. You do not know why you are surprised. Beside you, Andromache shakes her head and mutters about boys and lost toys. You do not laugh. (You desperately want to.)

That night, as the war council gathers in the court, you sit in your rooms and stare down at the blade your husband gave you in exchange for your son. In the reflection, you see tired eyes and pale cheeks. In the gleam, you see fire and ash. You see men falling upon spears and bathing in the blood that washes down the streets of the city you have long since come to see as home. You see your children, grown and long past the age of needing your hand and skirts.

The war comes, just as you had expected. Demi-gods batter the gates of the city again and again. You stand on the walls of the citadel, and you absently pick through the forces for the men you had watched practice their skills in the courtyard of your childhood home and your husband’s estate.

Troy will not give you up. They can’t, not without also giving reparations they cannot afford. You understand this, but at the same time you stand with the women and you wonder if the men realize what is really at stake. Ego and pride have nothing on the horror you see in the reflections of your dagger and in the splintered eyes of every woman you see.

There is a tragedy in being born a woman and you think that this war is the worst one of them all.

Andromache has a child in the midst of this awful war. During the pregnancy, you sit beside her in silence and pretend you do not see her hands shake as she twists threads together. She does not blame you for this war and you do not blame her for her fear. She will give birth to a child and that child will be christened with the depression of a siege.

The boy is born on a sunny day. His screams are hardly heard over the din of the battlefield. Andromache near breaks your hand as she pushes and you whisper praises and gossip into her ear in an attempt to distract her. None in that room are strangers to birth, but it never gets any easier either.

(You have not missed your children so much as in that moment.)

Hector's heir breathes his first and screams to the heavens with a wail to rival a demigod. While the midwife checks the child, you are inexplicably relieved that the child is mortal. A mortal son of a mortal prince. The child is not yours. He is not. But gods, he is mortal and the thought makes you want to weep with joy.

Here, at least, is one faction of your life untainted by the whims of the heavens.

Life continues.

The siege does not end.

Paris, the spineless coward, takes to mocking the armies from the safety of the city walls and then ducking into your rooms the moment there is even a hint he might be sent out to fight. Instead, Hector goes and stands in his stead. Hector, the heir. The father of a child not yet past his first birthday.

You look to Priam and wonder why the spare is not sent out in the heir's stead.

Hector's son screams every time his father puts on his helmet and there is little you can do but offer to hold the boy as Andromache’s hands clench whenever Paris breathes a small sigh of relief. But, like your mother once taught you to breathe, to hold your anger in boiling blood and dense bone, Andromache never reacts past a stiff nod and a brisk pace as she marches off.

Some days, this leaves you with an infant in hand and distant eyes as you gaze over the gates and to the ships beyond.

(Will your husband be kind when you are inevitably returned? Or will you be chained to his estate and locked away in rooms so none can ever dare to breathe a word of your supposed beauty.)

There is no safe path in your future. Either you remain as a spoil of war here, in a city that will never allow you freedom, but offers kindness. Or, you return to a city where your husband's wrath will isolate you, and this time, you will not even have your children. Andromache offers you kindness by letting you hold her son. (In her position, you do not know if you would offer the same.)

The war drags on.

Then there is Achilles and there is rage.

You watch and you wonder why no one stops him. You wonder why he does not breathe. Surely he was taught how to smuggle away rage and hide behind bone. Surely all children of the gods were taught of the consequences of their actions? It is their curse, after all.

Anger becomes rage, happiness becomes bliss. There is no middle ground for your kind. You are flung from one extreme to the next, emotions boiling and crashing and twisting up behind ribs and clawing at hearts. It is the emotions of the gods. It is the curse of a demi-god. You will forever feel as strongly as a god but even the gods do not have as many emotions as humans. But still, your mother's first lesson was to hide away anger, surely Achilles was taught the same?

(You do not pity him. Rage will not bring back the dead but it will certainly numb the grief.)

Paris refuses to go back out. Hector responds to a challenge. A mortal prince against a demi-god blessed by the gods themselves. A demi-god frothing with rage and screaming in grief. Up on the walls, you think you are the only one who does not take a step back. (That is the same anger that boils in your blood and oh, isn’t it  _ fascinating  _ to see what it could look like if only you were allowed.)

Hector, a mortal prince with a mortal son of two years, who's first word had been ‘da' only the night before, takes one look at the monster before him, and decides that holding his son is more important then fighting an enraged demi-god of impenetrable skin and strength enough to move mountains. Part of you is not surprised.

The part of you that rages with golden blood and rumbling skies, wants to snarl down to the prince  _ come back with your shield or on it. _

But, just like his brother, Hector turns tail and runs.

It does not save him.

You hold his son and you watch as Hector is killed before the gates and his murderer hitches his body to the back of his chariot. You can almost feel Achilles anger like a tangible thing and you want to lean forward and snarl. Boys. Boys and their anger create nothing but hate.

Beside you, Paris has his knuckles between his teeth and you would not be surprised if there is blood dropping between his teeth.  _ The heir is dead.  _ You think. You hitch the dead man's son higher on your hip.  _ Long live the heir. _

Hector's body stares up to the skies and blood stains the dirt below as Achilles whips his team into a frenzy. It is cruel, you think, to deny the man his peace in his death. It is cruel to leave his wife with nothing but ghosts and a legacy to raise.

Beside you, a young girl. A pretty little thing you hope never grows any further into her beauty least the gods become angered. (Would this have happened at all if you had taken a knife to your cheeks long ago? Would any of this have happened if you had not been so vain?) The girl's hands are curled into vices on her arms and you watch in silence as the girl leans closer to the wall.

_ The city will burn _ . She says in a whisper. Her eyes are distant and you do not know what she sees in the dirt below.  _ The gods have willed it. _

You hold Hector's son and you see your wishes crumble into withered blooms. The girl looks up to the skies with a loathing you feel in your very bones and you realize that beauty is not what drags down the gods to earth, it is greed. The girl is hardly more than a child and yet…

(She stares at the sun the way you stare at the skies, with longing and anger in turn.)

_ The city will burn. _ She whispers as she turns away from the screams and the body below.  _ And no one will listen. _

Blood and marrow leave behind a grisly trail of anger and hate as Achilles parades about in his deranged grief, but you watch the girl walk away from the battlements, the men jeering at her for hysterics and theatrics. It is a tragedy, you think as you rock Hector's son in his sleep, that all the good people were born women.

(It is the curse of a woman to always be ignored.)

Later, you will learn that the girl was named Cassandra. You will sit there and you will see her trembling hands and bruised cheek, and you will wonder if it would have been kinder had she burned with the city. Agamemnon is not a kind man.

Priam will later gather up his children, name Paris his heir, hold his grandson tight, and stare off into the black ships with heart ache. He has lost a son. You lost a man of kindness and gentleness. Andromache has lost herself in the wailings of the temple and you wonder if it is a trick of the wind that you can still hear Hector's head  _ crack  _ against the stone of the gate road.

Time seems to move slowly.

Priam disappears into the night and you do not say a word to the grieving family as the man shuffles off. He is not acting as a king, you acknowledge as you slowly urge the household to find better accomplishments then the floor of the court, he is acting as a father. It does not surprise you when the man reappears holding his son like a babe.

(Part of you rages that the only good man is now  _ dead _ because of his brother's stupid mistake. Part of you wants to pick up Hector's shield, slam it into Paris' chest and tell the man  _ to come back with the shield or on it. _ )

Andromache watches as her husband burns.

Her son asks for his da.

You close your eyes.

There is a tragedy in being born a woman.

Andromache wakes with the household the next day and you help in silence beside the rest of the women to smuggle any packs filled with food, blankets, clothes, and tools. Paris cannot win this war. Priam is too old. Hector had been their only chance, a symbol of hope and courage. And even he died.

The city will burn, but their children will not burn with it.

The men will not listen. They will think them rambling and hysterical women. They will think the women have cracked under the pressure of siege and grief. And maybe you have. But these children will not burn.

There are thousands of people in the city. Andromache sends word through the temples. Her orders spread quickly. It is almost amusing to see how pregnant women suddenly beg their husbands to come with them to see family outside the city. The people leave in fits and starts and you stand beside Andromache with the knowledge that even one person saved is better than none at all.

Days later, Achillies dies face first in the trail of his victim's blood. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the grace of your half-brother, and like with most of your father's family, you pretend to see nothing at all. Beside you, Cassandra growls and snarls at the grace of the god, and you reach out to hold her steady before your half-brother can turn and stare at his missing prize.

(There is a tragedy in being born a woman and it is never more tragic than becoming a plaything rather than a woman.)

You turn away from the walls and walk back to your rooms.

Behind you, the war continues.

Odysseus will slip into the citadel and he tells you of trickery and deception. His very presence warns you that disobeying will be painful, willfully ignoring the signs will bring you nothing but heartache. You pretend to be happy with his appearance. You agree to help.

Odysseus slips out of your rooms and Andromache stands from behind the curtain she had ducked behind. Even in her grief, she is stunning and from the way she looks at you, you know she does not cast judgement or blame. Her jaw clenches and you find yourself slipping into a short bow. All of this tragedy, all of this pain, would it exist if you had never been born?

That night, more women and children slip out into the docks, ready to leave with the next tide. It is not enough. It is not nearly enough.

But it is better than nothing.

Andromache helps plan the next festival and as you move from room to room, you occasionally catch sight of her hunched shoulders and steady hands. Neither of you know when and neither of you know how, but the city will burn.

It is inevitable.

You fold the weft through the warp. Cassandra stands at the temple steps and laughs. Lacoon and his sons scream in their house. Andromache holds her son tight. Your husband marches through the city gates, his eyes alight with the potential spoils. Your cousins rip through the women who had refused to leave their homes. Your father turns his gaze away. Your half-siblings fly above the streets, their hands brushing the bodies of their chosen.

You fold the weft through the warp and look down at the tapestry you have worked on for the past ten years.

There is a tragedy in being born a woman.

(There is a tragedy in being born at all.)

Far below, the city burns.


End file.
